


Slip Out the Back

by Theincrediblesulkmachine



Series: Heroes [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Champion! Shiro, Fort Minor- Slip Out the Back, Galra AU, Galra Empire, Galra Keith, Gen, General! Keith, Gladiator! Shiro, Halfbreed Galra Keith, He looks human but the Galran Empire is all he's known, If You Squint - Freeform, Inspired, Keith x Ulaz, Keith's Mother - Freeform, Keitor, Kinda, Krolia before i knew she was Krolia, Lotor's Generals - Freeform, M/M, Not really about romantic ships per se, Open to Interpretation, Prisoner! Shiro, Rebel! Keith, SHEITH - Freeform, Soldier Keith, Songfic, Symbol of Rebellion! Shiro, Terrifying gladiator descriptions, The Arena, What Else Do I Tag?, a short oneshot, aka Keith's galra given name, and that's a wrap, gladiator fights, help me, i guess, identity crisis, it barely even classifies as a songfic anymore, it was supposed to be under 5k, its me, its subtle, kyryl, non-explicit ships, obviously, ofcourse theres gonna be angst, one of many million AU's rolling around in my head, ooh how could i forget, platonic/romantic/general/whatever, the love/emotion/feelings are real regardless, this escalated like you wouldn't believe, uliro, why am i like this?, you can read it that way if you want though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theincrediblesulkmachine/pseuds/Theincrediblesulkmachine
Summary: Watching the dust settle in the Arena- in the aftermath of the storm that the Champion embodies- is symbolic like the things he finds himself analyzing in flights of fancy. Watching the dust settle, and feeling his heart click into a place he’d been long searching for, Keith finds himself.





	1. Nothing Feels Like it's Really Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> I really can't help myself, can i? Well, this one came about during a bus ride while my head was rattling like nobody's business, and the title song came on (if you haven't heard it, listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVGiiiB7wpY) ) It reminded me of Shiro, when it came to a certain paragraph ( _I'm no hero, you remember how I was, you know; All I ever did was worry, feeling out of control to the point where everything was going end over end. I'm spinning around in circles again, this is where you come in_ ) and the context just unfurled itself around those sentences.  
> This has another part or two to complete the scenario in my head- real life got in the way and so i wasn't able to finish in one sitting despite no lack of trying- but i have a couple of ideas that might yet elongate this into a series, because i haven't seen nearly enough General!Keith fics out here in this aether and got really attached really quickly.
> 
> For that, however, i will need serious motivation and feedback on whether any of y'all are even interested, since i already have my ongoing 40k monster in the works. Please do leave me an encouraging shout in the comments if you enjoy this at all.
> 
> The alien species (Anoplogastrid) is inspired by a) my own disgust/somewhat unsettling fear (the only thing im truly creeped out by) for the reptilian/amphibian specie); b) the Anoplogaster/ fangtooth fish-monster thing; and c) these really awesome random-find concept-arts by a (super talented) artist on deviantart: Links [here](https://duster132.deviantart.com/art/Biomech-Hazard-514472180) and [here](https://duster132.deviantart.com/art/Dark-616573676) for those interested. (Tell me that's not completely terrifying, i dare ya)  
> Anddd that's that for references used/ muses, hope you enjoy my mind at work (work).

* * *

 

It starts the way it always does; the long furious-paced walk, the two-pronged escort through the near pitch-black corridors, blasters armed and knives poised for if he dares act out.

Shiro doesn’t resist anymore; not with Matt and Commander Holt too far away to be used against him.

He has no one to fight for, to protect, except himself. So he leashes his anger and fear, and keeps his back straight, and chest squared.

Shiro tolerates the sharp prods to his back every time he slows; he allows the debasing commentary hurled his way; slurs of race, lineage, size and the speculations about the favouritism. He permits the laughter, the insults, and he… He tries not to let it get to him.

Shiro has never been particularly proud, but the person he has become wears the arrogance like a mask, knowing that his skill in the arena is only augmented by the farce he puts on- that the aloof demeanour protects him in a way it doesn’t the outspoken fighters.

That very trait had betrayed Kl’vyrrah.

The name is followed by a pang in his chest, because she had been halfway decent; brash but honest, uncontrollable but kind, in the half-crazed way they all were in the Gladiator camp.

The way they had to be to live through their reality.

So, he uses the arrogance, because no one ever said he was a slow learner; it’s more intimidating when he rarely speaks, hardly reveals intention or emotion. Shiro remains unfazed, and eventually the Galran infantry bores of him as a plaything.

All, except the witch.

_Don’t think about that._

He feels a tremor shake him, and swallows down the tremble with a sharp breath. The blasters at his back tense, but he pretends not to notice; pretends not to see the relieved sigh they let out when they reach the elevator that’ll take him up to the surface of the Arena.

Shiro wonders uselessly, as he clenches and rotates his newly released arms, what they’ll pit him against this time. He wonders if today is the day he will no longer feel remorse, for ending another’s life with screaming agony amidst pleas for mercy.

It weighs on him but, that burden too, is as familiar as the ascent from darkness to blinding light; the change, the guilt; a burning in his eyes, unbearable warmth on a face that is accustomed to the chill of night.

The brightness is no longer as comforting as it once was; all the light does is show him how he has changed, and not for the better.

He prefers the blackness of his cell, the anonymity, the silence.

The light shows him uncomfortable truths; the ways he has deformed, the monster he has devolved into.

It puts him in focus, every base instinct he has always tried to control, out in the open for everyone to see.

Shiro hates it, but the persona he falls into every time he fights, doesn’t care.

That small part of him revels in the roar of the crowd, the chant of his moniker; _Champion, Champion, Champion._

It pleases him, in vindictive fashion, that the mechanism to his downfall; the stadium the Galra had intended as his grave, has become his platform.

Here in the Arena, he becomes more than himself; despite the ways he has slipped from his own moralities, in the warmongering specie he has fallen with, everything he despises is viewed as an asset.

Here they shout his name for his aggressive strength, his pugnacity, his tenacious drive to keep going; they shout his name for the way they can’t keep him down, no matter the odds.

They scream for him, as someone who stands up to the Galra, and wins, and wins, and _wins_.

While later the horrors Shiro will inflict, empty his stomach in waves of slick- of bile and remnant food- right now he relishes the adrenaline buzzing through him; the way the rumble of the crowd makes him feel alive.

Here in this arena, he has no room for loneliness or despair. Here, all that matters is his survival.

And he will survive.

* * *

 

Keith watches the stadium fill up, watches the first fighter enter the Arena with a half-smile pulling at his lips. It widens when the crowd erupts at the sight of their much-favoured Champion. With the visor of his helmet in place, he has no fear of being seen; yet another nameless, faceless Galran soldier on security detail.

He enjoys the anonymity- always has- as he leans back against the wall of his station, eyes solidly on the tiny figure that walks proudly into the arena, not acknowledging the roar of his name.

Watching the Arena had been like witnessing an armada of fighter jets firing down within a resident camp of unarmed women and children; senseless violence which only served as a reminder of the cruel realm of possibility.

It was distasteful, and only called to mind what Keith would wish to forgot, had he been any less of a man.

Instead he allows it to burn secretly, a small flame in a heart encased by ice, and caged by walls.

The Champion changed that; it was funny, really. He was tiny compared to most everyone they put him up against, dwarfed by massive multi-limbed aliens; no one had expected much from him.

Keith though, in all manner of improbability, had felt the exact opposite.

He had caught sight of him by accident, crossing paths in the claustrophobic corridor that led to the Arena, and had jolted at the alien appearance; the one all too familiar to Keith because of what invariably looked back at him in the mirror.

 _Terran,_ it was called.

In that split second, he had seen the concealed flame in eyes of slate, and it spoke to the matching one he nursed in his heart, and he had _known_.

That man, the Champion, was a fighter- a survivor, and he still had more to live for; he was not to be underestimated.

Keith had been right.                                                                                                                            

He had decimated everything and everyone they had pitted him against- a maelstrom of single-minded perseverance even in the face of impossible odds- until his demeaning identifier had been replaced by a singular word: Champion.

He grew more and more stoic with each fight, revealing less and less emotion; more stolid, more and more unimpeachable. For all that his skin was easily penetrable, gone was the softness, replaced by a man of steel and iron, made entirely of flesh.

It was more than a little impressive how a mere gladiator became the almost symbol of rebellion; the fight against the cruelty of the Galran Empire.

If one person that defenseless can hold his own, why can’t a larger body- once it amasses its strength?

Keith is not ashamed to admit that he is a little hooked; he doesn’t know if its solidarity with his assumed heritage, admiration, that unending spark of mutiny under his skin, or a mere soft corner for the underdog, but he finds himself beginning to hope he has no scheduled missions for the time frames the fights fall on.

He finds himself spectating every fight he can manage, and what had been brute violence becomes a choreographed dance of death.

Keith turns his sight from the Champion to his opponent as it slithers in.

It’s unambiguously an amphibian species, a massive _Anoplogastrid_ , more scales than skin, tapering limbs long and flattened. It looks like it shouldn’t be physically able to stand; a truncated seeming cylindrical head-hundreds of milky eyes scattered without apparent rhyme or reason- atop a wide torso- four times that of the _Terran_ \- but the planar waist is disproportionately tiny, almost indiscernible from Keith’s vantage.

The ends of its limbs and tail are all barbed; its maw littered with sharp fangs of disparate sizes, each lethally jagged- all dripping with fluid that is undoubtedly venom.

It’s a hair-raising sight, more alien than most he sees, and Keith feels some distaste at the sight, the thought of the uneven match up. The Champion doesn’t even hold a weapon.

When the siren rings, the Anoplogastrid keens; a shrill piercing sound that has Keith flinching, hands halfway to his sensitive ears in pain from the reverberations. He lowers them before it becomes too obvious, for the Galra are supposed to be above trivial matters such as pain, but the discomfort ripples through the spectators and his lapse goes unnoticed.

The Anoplogastrid has already begun its offence in that split second of inattention.

It has an odd, fluid range of movement that isn’t restricted to one plane of movement; it almost warps with every strike, body rotating at its non-existent middle. It jerks, and its left limb seems to stretch as it snaps at the Champion, claws missing him by a hair.

The Champion staggers on his leap backwards, taken aback by the impossible speed, but steadies by the time the Anoplog jumps for him, shifting from a bipedal form to all fours.

Its solid mass connects, grasping the Champion by his shoulders, affixing himself by embedding its talons into the blades of his back, using that as an axis to lift its legs and knee the Champion.

The Terran is propelled backwards by force as the Anoplog simultaneously retracts its grip. The Champion spins as he’s thrown back, tumbling in on himself uncontrollably, until he hits the ground with an immense thud.

There is a collective gasp of air from the crowd, as the Champion rolls to a stop, and lies still on the jagged floor, unmoving.

Keith finds himself standing upright, a sudden spiking fear forcing him to hold his breath.

The Anoplogastrid slither-stalks forward, its spiked tail rasping as it rubs the uneven floor.

The Champion is still unsettlingly still, and Keith finds himself whispering under his breath. “ _Come_ on, come _on_.”

The Anoplog is upon the Champion now, and Keith’s mouth twists downward in hidden distress. That’s what he gets for getting attached.

The amphibious monstrosity wraps his barbed tail around the Champions midriff, grasps and lifts, the barbs slicing into his stomach. The Champion’s head lolls downwards, hanging to his chest as the other gladiator yanks him upwards, sounding that shrill battle-cry again.

Keith feels his heart constrict as if echoing that noise in despair.

Fuck.

The message is as clear to his insubordinate heart as if it was the thing being broadcast on the massive overhead projectors; all that stands up against the Empire will be crushed.

Another heartbeat of despair, of demoralized disappointment hits him as he refuses to look away; the comparatively childlike human against the alien beast.

It opens its hellish maw, unhinging it beyond structural capacity, the drip of the venom intensifying as it salivates.

 _This is it_ , Keith thinks miserably, the end of those pointless daydreams of change, of rebellion, of taking down the tyranny he’s irrevocably linked to by blood.

The distressed screams of the crowd serve as the soundtrack to his failing dreams.

He doesn’t know why he had even bothered hoping, it wasn’t like there had been any organization at work trying to bring down the Empire. It was merely one magnetic man fighting the battles laid out for him; The Champion didn’t have a choice, he wasn’t doing it for any ideals or metaphorical symbolism… he was coerced, and Keith was a _fool_ for romanticizing it in his head, in his heart.

He still rejects the notion of looking away, keeps his gaze fixed on the end of his unwise dreaming.

He watches as the alien mouth stretches around the Champion, he’s almost torso deep in its jaws, and it’s going to devour him.

Keith doesn’t want to watch this, but he doesn’t shift, even as he grudgingly lets out a small sad sound. _Goodbye Champion,_ he thinks _. May your next lifetime serve you better._

Three.

The disturbing widening seems endless, the gelatinous bones of the Anoplogastrid creaking. Keith will have nightmares about this instant.

Two.

The sound the alien lets out this time is more of a croon, a whistle-click of distinct pleasure, a thankyou for the meal and Keith lip curls back in disgust.

One.

It clamps its jaws downwards, and finds itself unable. There is an arm braced against the roof of the Anoplog’s mouth, elbow propped against the floor, pinning down the forked tongue, and the giant beast looks like a dragon hybrid choking on a wishbone.

It’s ludicrous, and the crowd eats it up, deafening in their laughter.

Keith’s brow furrows, hands clenching as he runs his thumb over his gloved knuckles; the amphibian compresses its jaw again but that one arm appears immoveable as the Champion yanks his head and shoulders back out.

He focuses on the screens, as the feed zooms into the cavernous maw, and where there was once flesh is metal: _luxite,_ he realizes. The arm is made of metal stronger than meteorite, than _adamantium_.

His heart skips a beat, as a glow originates within the oral cavity, and he feels an indignant anger rise in him: is that monster truly capable of breathing fire?

But, as the radiance grows, it’s distinctly amethyst and periwinkle; two pretty names for the most deadly glimmer that Keith has seen beyond the fully powered Balmeran crystals.

The light pools and spools, and willows outwards in pulsating waves, until it bursts in a searing x-flare; Its blinding, and the Arena is engulfed in white.

Keith raises an arm to shield his eyes but he doesn’t dare look away.

As it dissipates, the intricacies of detail start returning; the rubble on the floor, the depression where the Anoplogastrid stood, the splatter of gore originating at the crater and creating a sunburst on the Arena ground.

Watching the light fade, Keith’s eyes zero in on the Champion, leaned forward, arm still extended into a non-entity. It burns red-hot, cooling back down to the metallic graphite.

He lists slightly to the side, clearly injured, but his eyes are clear and remorseless. His face is set in distaste and exhaustion, but there is no regret.

He straightens up slowly, and stands tall more efficiently than uninjured men.

It’s a moment from the epics, the untraceable wind fluttering the Champion’s hair, his prison garb; the strength of his shoulders, the stability in his powerful stance.

The way he looks at nothing and at no one, but some interminable point in the distance.

Keith feels his rebellious heart race, in hope and belief; in found faith.

Looking on, with what is nothing short of a miracle, he comes to realize a fundamental truth about himself.

Keith doesn’t want to stand aside waiting for others to fight his battles. He doesn’t want to wait for more cruelties and injustice, for heroes to recruit him, redeem him.

He’s no hero, but he’s no coward.

He’s a survivor, and he will fight for what’s right.

Watching the dust settle is symbolic like the things he finds himself analyzing in flights of fancy.

Watching the dust settle, and feeling his heart settle into a place he’d been long searching for, Keith finds _himself_.

* * *

 


	2. Forget Perfect, I'm Trying Not to be Worthless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith takes in a deep breath, then, and does what his first instinct always is; he follows the tug on his heartstrings.  
> He goes to find the Champion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, i don't really know what i'm doing? this was a oneshot; maximum 5k, i thought to myself... and well, my current word count is crawling above 11.5k and there is a sizeable chunk of the plot still to go? *shakes head at self*
> 
> I know the chapter count has gone up from 3 to 4, but its essentially the same content; the last one is just a kind of epilogue, and i split this mammoth of a chapter in two, because the details around the pacing kept stretching and the second half wasn't even resolved, and i needed it to be up, to just call it a night. I've been kind of exhausted, and busy af lately, and have limited time to write, so please excuse the delays. 
> 
> Thanks for everyone who came by to shout at me on tumblr, or on here, i really appreciate all the kind stuff you guys said. These days, its the only thing that keeps me going; so thank you, really. <3
> 
> (The only note i have is that the **bold** text is a switch in conversation from Galran to English)
> 
> Happy late Halloween!

* * *

 

Shiro is not handling the aftermath of the fight well.

He is covered in gore: blood and brains, and bits of remnant muscle and meat. He can’t avoid the stench; the copper, the fluid, the rot of death as it wraps around him like a second skin, like a lover’s caress.

His clothes are in tatters, stiff with drying blood, both his own and that from the exploding creature.

He doesn’t know where he found the force of will and pride to walk out of the arena, but with every second of dissipating adrenaline, he feels his strength wane.

His guards scamper after him, but say nothing; post fight, they always hold their tongues- as if in realization of the monster they share breath with.

Currently though, Shiro feels more like a gigantic bruise than either monster or human.

There is a burning in his chest, his side; there are gashes on his arms, his stomach and back where the teeth, the tail and the talons respectively left their marks. His left arm is at best dislocated, and at worst broken; he holds it close to his chest, but it doesn’t help; not with the way he’s shaking.

The rest of his body is more friction rash than skin, the tumbling on the rubble of the arena floor was not kind. There are deep throbbing aches in his lower back and thighs; most decidedly bruises from the first throw.

Shiro isn’t quite sure how he survived.

He remembers the other gladiator- nightmares made flesh- and shudders, as he flashes back to the second he had regained enough consciousness to fight back, head and shoulders entrenched within grasp of its teeth.

He nearly hadn’t survived.

Shiro feels the panic coil back into his throat, reflex causing the bile to resurface; he has already thrown up twice, and feels more than a little lightheaded from the blood loss, the exhaustion from the fading adrenaline, and the aftermath of whatever-the-fuck his alien hand just did.

The loss of the arm is fresh, the pain still a next-door neighbour, and the site of installation hurts like…. Well, like someone sawed off his arm and stuck a mechanical replacement to it, overriding the blood in his veins with coursing electricity.

Operating it also took a toll, but Shiro… he hates it, but he knows he wouldn’t have survived without it.

His vision swims on a spell of dizziness and he keels sideways onto a wall; dependent on it for staying upright.

The pain resurges, and the fire in his wounds grows hotter; He falls to his knees, unable to help the groan low in his throat, and despite the alarm he can hear in his guards’ shouts, he can’t make himself get back up.

I _s this it?_ He wonders as another wave of agony crashes through him, like current in a circuit created through the wounds littered on his body.

_Was this the point of his existence? His hard work to become a pilot; the first on Kerberos?_

Unpermitted, a sob tears through his mouth, as he crumples to his elbows, trying to curl up on himself.

_To die someone’s plaything? A brute to savage; one that fights for their amusement?_

_Is this the end?_

_I’m not ready,_ he thinks as his vision warps to nothingness, _I’m not ready._

* * *

Keith is more than a little conflicted in the aftermath of his revelation, if he’s honest.

He has never held much love for the Galran Empire; he doesn’t truly remember much from before he came, having been no more than eight years in age- but two memories are clear; the first, a vision of blue skies, warm air, and a man’s ruddy, tan cheeks.

Its vague, in the way old memories are, tinted in hazes of dust that recollection isn’t strong enough to pierce; he remembers the contentment in his heart, as a smile widens on the man’s lips; it gleams white, and his fangs- _teeth,_ he reminds himself-  are flat and blunt.

He doesn’t remember more of the man’s face, but he assumes that was his father and from what intel he has been able to gather, blue skies are only visible on Terra.

(It’s a lot of conjecture, but having had no one to tell him, _remind_ him of where he came from, he forgot all too easily; asking, or crying for what he had lost was also beaten out of him young.)

The second memory is less pleasant, and even harder to remember; the shouting, the sound of blaster fire, the man’s hands painted in a deep red hue, his low deep voice harsh in panic, “ _Keith, run; you have to run.”_

The fear, the anger remains.

That proves harder to forget than his father’s face, and the resentment of a child for that which took him away from his home- his _name_ \- lingered.

 _Keith_.

The Galran’s had renamed him, _Kyryl_ , but he remembered his first; that too became a point of conflict, the fact that they tried to take his identity from him, shrouded it in language and customs not his own.

(That they denied still.)

At twenty and three, he had spent on Gal more than double the years he had spent on Terra. The Galra had shaped him in more ways than the peaceful world before had managed, but the umbrage remains; growing, and adapting with age, but constant.

Keith always was stubborn, and he remains stubborn in holding on to that antipathy.

So no, it’s not the act of betraying his people that bothers him; this is as much for them, as for himself. What bothers Keith is the vastness of the decision, the Empire he wants to take down.

He is one man, and no matter how highly he thinks of himself, he’s not nearly deluded enough to believe he’s enough; that he alone can mastermind the annihilation of a tyranny that predates him by millennia.

No, the problem is that he is alone; is no one of particular worth or notable lineage, and thus has no connections.

He’s alone, and while he’s a capable fighter and a decent soldier, he doesn’t know where to begin this daunting task.

Keith takes in a deep breath, then, and does what his first instinct always is; he follows the tug on his heartstrings.

He goes to find the Champion.

* * *

 

Shiro drifts in and out of consciousness.

He feels adrift; sometimes grounded by the touch of a hand on his arm, a distantly familiar voice in his head, the flare of agony in starbursts all over his body.

Being aware hurts, and he’s thankful for the moment he’s submerged into the numbness, into silence.

* * *

 

Keith makes an effort to not be identified.

He keeps on the helmet he steals from a Galran grunt- one that is vile in all mannerisms and has no personality save the parroted, bigoted beliefs of the Empire; it’s a failsafe for the potential risk. Keith has no intention of falling mercy to the druids; nor does he want any half-decent guard to pay for his crimes.

The other guards he passes give him side-eyed looks, but don’t stop him. This society isn’t formed on trust or accountability, not when each life is in the hands of Zarkon and his witch. Nobody has dared to rise up, or stand ground against orders in millennia; not when a mistake on any account results in never being heard from again.

Not when daring to question results in death.

So he keeps moving on, feeling gazes linger on him for seconds before shifting, and has to actively try not to adjust his mask in ensuring his face is hidden.

Being half-Terran makes him conspicuous, and the stakes he’s up against aren’t lost on him.

He stops at the door to the cell holding the Champion; the two Galra at post here are evidently impure of breed, brutish-looking and twice as wide as even the burliest warriors.

One stares at him, arms akimbo, while the other lifts a hand to halt him.

Keith pours as much arrogance as he can muster in the tilt of his head, his pointed posture; ensuring the sneer is audible in his tone of voice as he says, with a casual lift of his arm. “The Prince wishes to send the Champion his compliments.”

It’s a gamble, because the Prince is a half-mythical being in most parts, but his reputation of cruelty and vindictive games percolates throughout the grunt gossip, with what is a mixture of awe and dread.

It’s a gamble because if the Prince gets alerted, it’ll be Keith’s neck on the line, and no ruses will protect that.

Thug One looks at Thug Two, and it’s an apparent exchange of glances, _do we want to risk the Prince’s wrath over this?_

Keith waits three ticks, and then lets a mocking laugh loose. “If you _want me_ to bother His Imperial Majesty over your refusal to let me through, it’s no skin off my back.”

It takes only another beat, before they step simultaneously aside.

“That’s what I thought,” Keith murmurs, amused, condescendingly patting Thug One’s arm.

He growls but doesn’t react otherwise, and Keith waits for the door to shut behind him before exhaling his relief.

 _Too close for his taste,_ he thinks as he turns to face the cell. It’s a small room, more comparable to the size of a metal safe, divided in half by the energy barrier enclosing the Champion. He’s slumped in the corner, head hanging low on his chest, hands splayed to either side. His breathing is shallow, and pained. The rags he’s dressed in are matted, thick with blood.

What _now?_ Keith thinks, desperately, darting a glance around the room. There’s a small galra-tech panel, and he could probably drop the barrier by scanning his hand, but that would also register his signature onto the database.

“ ** _Shit_**.” He breathes, unintentionally; the curse, surprisingly coming out in his native tongue, one he had long forgotten to reach for.

The Champion stirs, and Keith stills- closing his eyes as he thinks.

He can’t risk freeing the Champion, not now when he has no contingency plan in place.

For that, Keith has to ensure that the Champion pulls through, and he’s bleeding and unhealed and visibly weakened.

 _What now?_ He finds himself asking again, pressing thumb hard enough into the knuckle of his forefinger that it cracks.

It resounds off the wall of the tiny box that serves as the Champion’s cage for one tinny second, before its drowned out in the sound of the Champion’s groan of pain.

Keith jerks, stepping forward before he realizes it, approaching the barrier till he’s right within its force field; can feel the raw crackle of energy along his skin. He opens his mouth half-hesitant, wanting to speak but unable to find the words; neither in the Terran tongue, nor Galran.  

He settles for lingering at the periphery, hand half raised to the barrier in an aborted action, a worried exhale escaping him in a small huff.

That’s about all he gets time for, the last breath of air he manages, before the Champion tackles him in a movement that should be far too fast for his body frame.

Keith falls to his back with a surprised sound, caught entirely unaware, seeing as the gladiator jumped through an entirely solid wall of pure energy- the very one that should have been keeping him in.

At this angle, the Champion cuts an intimidating figure; knees on either side of Keith’s body, his hands affixed around Keith’s neck, thumbs pushed under the edge of Keith’s visor as he tries to pry it off.

Fortunately, for all that his soft heart gets him into trouble, Keith has always been quick to retaliate. He brings his knees in between him, with speed he knows most people don’t see coming, and shoves the Champion back with a harsh two-footed kick in the abdomen.

It’s the gladiator’s turn to be caught off guard, as he goes flying back through the barrier. Keith doesn’t waste any time, using the momentum from the kick to land on his feet in a crouch, hand on the floor for stability.

Keith pants in a quick breath before standing upright in one fluid motion; he approaches the sheet of energy bisecting the room warily and then, without further fanfare, sticks a hand through it.

It sizzles on his skin, but allows him to pass without frying him on the spot as it should.

Keith turns the problem in over his head, as he looks down at the collapsed Champion. This time his low whine of pain doesn’t seem feigned, as he struggles to get back to his feet.

Keith’s kick was exactly where most of his injuries lay- he winces with realization, feeling more badly about it than he should considering that the Champion had tried to kill him.

“Are you okay?” Keith finds himself asking, stupidly enough.

The Champion in great show of will raises his head, with obvious strain, slate grey eyes glowering with animosity. He doesn’t reply, prioritizing the attempt to bore holes in Keith’s head with his glare.

Keith grimaces, even as something in him admires the resilience, almost laughs at the illogicality. He quashes the small voice in his head that suggests that maybe the Champion is just a brute, and a man who enjoys the fight, the thrill of the kill.

 _No_. Keith looks at those intelligent grey eyes, and knows. They’re clouded with pain, but clear in their focus; it’s not the look of a savage, despite how bruised and bloodied he is. The eyes are those of a man that incites a rebellion, launches a war, and carries the weight of it on his shoulders, when no one else will.

 This man is beyond mortal limitations, he is a titan; Atlas, personified.

Keith is surer than he should be, more assured than his wary nature allows him, more certain than he ever has been for anything in his life; this is a man worth following.

Keith breathes in deep, searching for the words that he needs, for a language he thought lost. _“ **Are you okay**?” _ he repeats, and the Champion visibly startles.

 **“Wh- who are you?”** he gasps, the words seemingly torn from him without permission, eyes wide.

Keith swallows, the nostalgia hitting him like a tidal wave, as the speech he had never dared to dream of, breathes again.

It feels like the sting of tears, thorns in and around his throat.

“ **I’m a…friend.”** Keith manages, looking to the ceiling in an attempt for composure. It’s a little strange, wrapping his tongue around unpracticed words, but it comes easily enough; easier than the emotion in any case.

 **“What friend hides their face?”** and the Champion’s shock fades to suspicion, and even from his position on the floor, the one he can’t seem to rise from, his voice is strong.

Keith sighs, and raises his hands to his visor, preparing to remove it, when something catches his eye.

It’s the slight flicker of the Champion’s steady eyes to a point just behind him that alerts Keith. He stiffens as his ears pick up a near silent brush of air, and then he’s meeting the attack with a quick swipe of the dagger he always keeps concealed in his sleeve.

 **“For _fuck’s_ sake.” ** Keith mutters through his teeth, seemingly unable to stop once the conduit to his past has been established; it was something that while he didn’t truly grasp the meaning of, he had heard his father say, in much the same tone as he says it now, frustrated irritation amidst anger.

He’s been attacked twice, in a very short span of time, he is _allowed_ to be annoyed.

It’s a Galran officer, lower half of his face covered by a metallic- almost- muzzle, sharp yellow eyes fixed on Keith’s shielded face, with veiled venom. Their blades are perilously close to Keith’s face, aided by the Galran’s longer reach.

Keith is pushed back a few paces, and he growls, gritting his teeth as he strives to push back at his disadvantage. The man is undoubtedly a capable fighter, and definitely outranks him- if Keith is to hazard a guess based on the sigils alone.

In other words, Keith is screwed nine ways to hell, but he has never known when to give up, and he’s dead either way, so instead of continuing to push, he lets go of the dagger with one hand, and yanks the officer forwards.

His superior weight works against him, and the officer stumbles; the blade skitters jaggedly along Keith’s neck in a sharp line, but its shallow, and Keith easily grips the wrist at his collar, and squeezes hard, until the Galra is forced to let go of his weapon.

The knife hasn’t finished clattering to the ground by the time Keith brings his still armed right hand up in one quick flurry of motion, and has the blade pressed up against a pale lilac throat before he can even think of recovery.

The muzzled Galra freezes, keeping his eyes fixed to the blade against his throat. The full yellow iris can sometimes be hard to read, even with many years of practice, but Keith can easily pick the startled bewilderment in them.

Keith dares a glance down, and curses internally, the bindings he keeps wrapped around the hilt have unraveled displaying the glowing rune- an easily distinguishable blade; the one thing Keith has managed to keep from his past life, by never letting it be seen.

“Who sent you?” Keith growls.

 The man just laughs, and its sinister in the violet glow of the rune, and Keith tenses, expecting another struggle, when the Champion speaks. “ **Let him go, Galran. I’ll do whatever it is you want.”**

* * *

 

Shiro watches, a little horrified as the armoured guard- who had against all odds, spoken in flawless if accented English- turns around as swift as an adder, swift as vision, to meet Ulaz’s attack head on.

He’s dwarved by Ulaz, and is pushed back immediately, but impossibly persists.

The guard is ridiculously fast, and there is a throb in Shiro’s stomach that attests to that, but he is also surprisingly resilient. Shiro can visibly see the second he realizes that brute strength won’t win this, and he easily shifts grips to tug Ulaz forward.

Shiro’s heart jumps into his throat as Ulaz stumbles, and the Galran guard takes a slice to his throat, in one swift motion to render Ulaz weaponless, and imperiled.

Ulaz’s eyes fall to the glowing blade at his throat, and they are impossibly wide.

The guard stays very tense, speaking in the rasping drawl of Galran language- clearly a question- and Ulaz laughs.

Shiro knows from experience that Ulaz will willingly die before he volunteers information, and the laugh comes as no surprise. He finds himself standing though, as he looks straight at the guard in what he hopes is a firm glare, as he speaks,

“ **Let him go, Galran. I’ll do whatever it is you want.”**

The guard just seems confused as he eyes Shiro from his periphery, as if he doesn’t understand who Shiro directed the demand to.

Shiro can feel the guard’s gaze as he helplessly eyes the way the blade digs into Ulaz’s throat; Ulaz who is oddly still, eyes unerringly even on the guard’s masked face, as he returns a question in sharp Galran.

The guard flinches, and suddenly withdraws, the knife held close to himself but his posture is clearly defensive. He repeats his earlier statement, this time switching to language understandable to Shiro. **“Who _are_ you?”**

Ulaz straightens, and steps closer to Shiro almost protectively. **“I should be asking you that, boy.”**

 **“What is your business with the Champion?”** the guard growls back.

Shiro flinches at that title, and slumps back into the wall as his legs give out in the aftermath of a sharp spasm of pain.

 **“Are you okay?”** both the guard and Ulaz ask, suddenly concerned, and Shiro half-laughs in surprise and then winces.

 _Are you okay?_ The guard had asked that thrice; why does he care?

Ulaz eyes the boy in something akin to contemplation, and then folds. **“I will answer you, if you unmask.”**

The guard stands very still for three long seconds before exhaling, and raising his hands to his face, and it’s a familiar gesture, Shiro realizes. He had done it just before Ulaz had attacked.

Had he been trying to unmask then too?

There is a clicking, whirring buzz that resonates in the small cell, and then the mask comes down, and Shiro chokes on his breath.

The guard is _human_.

* * *

 

Against his better judgement, Keith unclasps the locking mechanism of his visor, and lowers it.

His brain calls him a fool, his heart says there’s more to the story.

Keith’s never been one to deny gut feelings.

The officer seemed… defensive about the Champion. The Champion had seemed worried about the Galran… if they are allies, then Keith is not their enemy.

He hears the Champion gasp, and the Officer’s gaze is heavy on his unprotected face.

“ **Human**.” The officer says, clinically.

“ **What is that?”** Keith asks warily.

“ **Vernacular for Terran.”** He replies, absently, as he turns to the Champion. “ ** _Shirogane_ , do you know him?”**

 **“No. I- I don’t.”** the champion replies, still in shock. Is _Shirogane_ a name? **“What are you doing here? What’s your name? Are you a prisoner?”**

Keith is taken aback by the sudden barrage of questions, and it takes a minute to parse the unpracticed words **“I was brought here as a child; they call me Kyryl.”** He answers, choosing to ignore the last query.

 **“Kai-reyl.”** Shirogane sounds out, slowly. **“Was that always your name?”**

Keith stays quiet, as he turns to the officer. **“Who are you?”** he repeats, tersely.

 **“I am Ulaz.”** The officer says. **“Where did you acquire that blade?”** he says _acquire_ like one would say steal.

“It is _mine_.” Keith snarls, forgetting to speak in Terran.

“You are not of the blade.” Ulaz repeats, the same way he had said it before, disdainful and icy.

 **“Ulaz?”** Shirogane looks from one to the other in obvious confusion.

Keith feels his upper lip rise, baring his teeth in a scowl, but he speaks in the common tongue for the Champion’s sake. **“I have had it since Terra.”**

 **“Earth.”** Shirogane corrects.

Ulaz blinks, adjusts a piece of equipment clamped along his ear, “ **How do you know to speak in Terran?”**

 **“How do you?”** Keith counters mutinously, crossing his arms on his chest.

 **“English.”** The Champion amends, sounding faintly amuse; Keith doesn’t turn to confirm it. **“Ulaz knows it because of the translator device attached to his ears. How _do_ you know it?”**

 **“I was born there,”** Keith hedges, slowly. **“Tell me, Champion, is _Earth_ of blue skies?”**

The Champion flinches again, but nods. **“Yes. _Please_ , call me Shiro.”**

 **“Shiro.”** Keith nods.

Ulaz sighs, and then comes to a decision; evidently factoring in Keith’s stubbornness. **“Why would Galra bring you here if you are indeed Terran? Why would you be a guard in their army? Why not dead in the water? Gal does not take in strays. _Who sent you?_ ” **he demands, suddenly looking angry as if he realizes the implications of an alien blade in the hands of a Terran.

 **“I am half-Galran,”** Keith snaps, finally. His eyes are flashing strobe-light purple- in time with the pulse of rage that thrums in his veins- and it has overtaken the whites of his iris, he can see it reflected in the surface of Ulaz’s metallic muzzle. **“I was brought here because I was the son of some traitorous general who _bred_ on Earth.”**

Ulaz suddenly staggers back a step, face ashen behind the gunmetal grey mask.

Keith is too angry to notice, as the words he has kept suppressed for a lifetime- the snippets of information he has gleaned from years of sneaking, hiding behind doors just to listen- erupt. **“They killed my father, brought me here for execution- probably to punish my _mother-_ but-” **a bark of bitter laughter tears itself from his throat, **“they got more than they bargained for.”**

 **“What does that mean?”** Shiro asks, softly.

Somehow Keith finds this settles him, countering the rage Ulaz’s words had inspired. The fury fueled rant dies, as he breathes in, another small laugh at his lips as he continues in a far more measured tone. **“It means that despite how hard they tried to kill me, I refused to die.”**

“Eventually, they decided to use you instead.” Ulaz murmurs, almost inaudibly, if not for Keith’s sensitive hearing.

Keith feels a smile pull at his mouth, and claps his hands twice, sarcastically slow. “Brilliant deduction, Lab-Commander Ulaz.”

* * *

 

Shiro feels his heart tug in unfamiliar ways as he hears the oddly sharp-edged laugh from the young guard.

Kyryl is probably no more than a handful of years younger than himself, still much taller than he is wide- like he hasn’t grown into his frame fully- but the things that he had spoken of, turned Shiro’s stomach.

Shiro feels bad for him, he realizes. Even Ulaz’s unemotional gaze is on the brink of sympathetic.

 **“What’s the,”** Kyryl hesitates, searching for words to phrase it **“situation- with the barrier?”**

 **“Deal.”** Shiro says immediately, and then kicks himself. This is oddly reminiscent of conversations had with his family, his sisters- back when they were learning English, and he slips into old habits far too easily.

Kyryl doesn’t seem to mind, his expression opens to something softer for a second before he nods.

Ulaz sighs, **“You ask far too many questions.”**

 **“You give too little answers.”** Kyryl fires back instantly, and his obstinate expression- while oddly endearing to Shiro- visibly frustrates Ulaz.

Ulaz sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose, seeming to give in. **“I disabled its functional core.”**

Kyryl seems to mull this over, weighing it for truths, and then fires a sentence in rapid Galran.

Ulaz’s eyes turn surprised, and he looks at Kyryl like he’s seeing a ghost, but the expression is extinguished near instantly. **“Your Emperor deems it necessary learning.”**

Kyryl’s eyes widen, and he snarls, damn near roars, seeming to remember his location only in the nick of time. **“He’s no emperor of mine.”** His voice is very low, but all the more deadly for it.

Ulaz’s eyebrows twitch, and his eyes take on a far-away shade, as he gives Kyryl a once-over. **“Help me bandage Shiro, boy.”**

Kyryl’s face smooths into a non-expression, turmoil put away instantly, as he turns to help.

* * *

 

They fall into a routine after, in the months that follow; Keith slips in whenever missions allow him to check up on Shiro, watches whatever fights he can under guise, and with bated breath.

Shiro remains a stalwart contender, and the crowd gets rowdier by the day; more in love with the Champion.

Keith begins seeing a recurring pattern of faces; the ones with the most discontent in their eyes, the worst jeers when the soldiers bring in the gladiators; the most anger when Shiro takes a hit from whatever beast they pit him against.

Keith begins making the connections Ulaz is too high-profile to amass. He knows there is more the Lab-commander refuses to tell him, that there is a story behind his blade, that there is someone- or multiple _someones’_ \- in the shadows guiding Ulaz.

Keith hates the secrecy but understands it, grudgingly.

In the meantime, he makes contact with the other insurgents, bit by bit, attaining their alliances. Looking Terran goes a long way in gaining him their trust, links him to the Champion, to the face that becomes the camera broadcasting their hopes to the known universe.

But _Shiro_ , Keith realizes, is _more_ than he had initially imagined; is more than his potential as a leader, more than just a symbol of the rebellion.

He is good, kindhearted, and increasingly important to Keith.

A friend in the truest sense of the word, and while his first thought in beginning this might have been to end the Empire and what it stands for, Keith knows a bias when he sees it; even if it is his own. His motivations are simple, to keep Shiro safe, to get him out of the Empire’s grasp.

The man is too noble for his own good, and it gets him more beatings and injuries than Keith can safely provide balm and pain-relievers for; Being a reckless fighter helps him on that front, as he is widely known to take thorough thrashings- what with his aptitude to get into fights.

It cuts into his own healing ability, and being a hundred percent on the battlefield, but Keith can’t say he minds or cares.

Not when he sees the relief in Shiro’s eyes, the soft expression his face takes on when he expresses gratitude that Keith doesn’t know what to do with.

As Shiro becomes more and more vital to Keith’s mental wellbeing, so does the urge to protect him.

They _have_ to get him out.

* * *

 

Kyryl becomes an unexpected comfort in Shiro’s miserable tenure as the Champion.

It’s not as often as every match that the Galran’s put him through, but Ky shows up atleast one every two, three weeks laden with healing salve that manages to tide him over until the next time the witch allows him a healing pod.

Shiro sometimes thinks of pointing out that there’s no way his frequent visits go unnoticed, but he’s too selfish, too terrified that if he does, he’ll never see Ky again.

Honestly, Shiro likes the guy; would go as far to say he’s fond of him.

Kyryl is magnetic; has capable hands and shoulders that Shiro finds himself leaning on; the messiest mane of wayward hair that Shiro has seen. It’s the way he moves that draws Shiro in the most though; like every step, every second wasted on stillness burns away at him; like it’s inevitable, like he just can’t help the drive to fight, like he needs it to survive.

Kyryl is a conundrum: sharp-edged, cagey and frequently sarcastic but also gentle hands and a soft smile; he gets tense if Shiro asks too many personal questions, but seems to have no reservations hearing Shiro babble on about everything he misses from Earth.

All in all, Ky’s surprisingly good, intelligent company, and funny in his rough, pragmatic way; Shiro doesn’t want to lose it.

 _Sometimes_ , he thinks, it’s the only thing that keeps him from losing his mind in the aftermath of the Arena’s brutality; his Champion farce.

Shiro always returns; but he’s one step closer to disintegrating, to forgetting the lines that lie between the Champion and _Takashi._

It’s unnerving.

Ky never treats him like the cause that Ulaz seems unable to differentiate him from, sometimes. Being treated like a person; having someone to confide in, laugh with, goes a long way.

Somehow, though, the feeling of having someone in his corner makes him bolder. With every forced cruelty, Shiro gets louder, more insubordinate, more reckless.

He just wants to… not feel helpless.

So Shiro fights, and fights _back_ ; he protects the other prisoners, and gets smacked around for his trouble, but he can’t help but feel like they’re the first bruises on his body that means something.

He feels like he’s finally standing for something, and its important.

It’s distinctive in what made- _makes-_ him _Takashi Shirogane_ instead of the Champion.

He _won’t_ lose that.

* * *

 

Keith is shaking, hands almost more unsteady than they were after his first kill.

He’s bleeding and bruised, with at least three fractured bones, but he barely feels the physical pain over the turn of emotions in his head; he’s never been more scared.

He has only just returned from his latest command, a full-scale infiltration in the heart of Thaumaton; a blazing planet believed to house major weapon-forges of the newly resuscitated rebellion, as well a host of enemies.

The intel was correct on all points except where it referred to the rebels as dangerous hostiles; they weren’t nearly well equipped enough to hold off a strike force of Galran battleships, and Keith was torn; between survival and purpose.

\---------------------

Keith had wanted to tear apart the tablet that had brought his orders; one part of his mind was convinced that they had discovered his treachery- furiously reanalyzing every moment, every interaction with the Empire and its soldiers that may have given him away- convinced, that this was a test of loyalty, by making him part of an assassination team.

The other part of his mind was just reeling, worried about his allies, his friends in the rebellion; wondering who tipped off the Galra, wondering what the hell he could do to save them without getting himself killed.

The mission went to shit instantaneously, he saw the rebels running, visibly shaken by the heavy fire their base takes immediately at the onset.

He saw Markos and his son Laythe get shot down from his vantage and felt his heart constrict.

Keith hadn’t had the time to alert Ulaz, but had the inkling that Ulaz’s benefactors would already know; not that it helped. He was there, and alone, against an armada. Keith couldn’t fight the Empire alone, but he also couldn’t let them extinguish the fire stoked by months of exertion on his part.

He couldn’t lose the rebellion.

Keith inhaled sharply, and allowed the next sear of heat- emanating in a wave from Thaumaton’s surface intermittently- to crash into his cruiser with only a limited amount of pretend evasion.

He jerked away, directly into the cannon burst the Rebels managed in a determined effort to scrounge up defense.

His cruiser crashed into the planet’s surface with a rattling impact that Keith felt within his bones. Keith yelled out in agonized pain, only half exaggerating, and hailed enough attention to make it seem incidental.

He heard his commanding officer yelling for regrouping, and smiled through gritted teeth. It was bittersweet.

He crawled out of his ruined ship with a last wistful glance, and grabbed one of the first rebels he recognized by the arm, out of sight behind his abandoned cruiser.

It was one of the Maesters of the Forge, _Zelkhae_ , he thought with relief, even as she lashed out, struggling instantly on sight of the Galran flightsuit.

She spat and cursed in her native tongue, raking sharp clawed hands down his arms, his back, his neck.

 **“Zelkhae,”** he hissed, tugging sharply. **“It’s _Ky_. Play along.” **  He tackled her to the floor, and placed his hands on her throat; he loomed above her, leaning till his mouth was level with her ear. **“You need to get to the escape ship. Take as many people, weapons as you can; this is the first wave, they’re under orders to wipe everyone out.”**

 **“Ky,”** she breathed sharply, going limp as she frantically searched for answers in his masked face. **“How did this _happen?_ How did they _find_ us?!”**

 **“I don’t know, I couldn’t do anything.”** He said, angry, but not at her. **“Don’t let all our work be for nothing: salvage one or two of the mechaforges, set the others to detonate.”**

 **“That would blow up everyone left behind.”** she replied, after a beat of silence. **“Everything we’ve worked for…”**

 **“I know.”** Keith sighed, **“ _Go_ , we don’t have time to waste.”**

 **“Ky.”** She said, and it was almost sad, scared.

 **“Go.”** He shoved at her, re-immersing himself in battle nearly instantly. He fought hard enough to survive, yet poorly enough to not harm anyone; to take sufficient injuries, to bleed over his uniform, to cement the ruse that he had fought and lost.

He would be disciplined, but that was still the better alternative

\----------------------

The Rebels pulled through but barely... Keith had seen the fleeing cruisers before the reinforcements had managed to arrive, thanking the deities that they had meshed out contingencies for escape. The ensuing explosions inflicted heavy losses to the fresh arriving ships, and it was likely that more would strike the Galran army once they returned to basecamp.

(It was unlikely that even half would survive the ordeal that was the witch enraged.)

While something in Keith reels at the amount of death he has caused with one missed piece of information, with one betrayal, it still isn’t the worst part.

The worst is what he hears on chance as he dismounts the cruiser he had had to hitch a ride in.

The worst is a rumour; spreading in sinister sprays that Sendak had gotten to Shiro.

Keith clenches his hands to suppress the threatening tremor.

Sendak is someone even Keith tends to avoid; the Commander is egotistical, but sharp in a way that backs the bluster; he is vindictive and unforgiving, and if Shiro had done anything to get on his bad side…

Well, it wouldn’t end well.

Shiro had been growing increasingly unflinching; it hadn’t been too long ago when he had stepped in to stop some guards from bullying the newer prisoners.

He only received a couple of scrapes in the consequent fight, but only because Keith and Ulaz had stepped in; Ulaz as the Lab-Commander who has stories shrouding him into a particularly terrifying specimen of monster, and Kyryl, the guard who had managed to put the Champion into a headlock.

The only reason the bullies’ didn’t inform any higher ups is that it would have been their own skin on the line.

Keith hadn’t said anything to Shiro’s sheepish smile, choosing to busy himself with applying salve, although he’s pretty sure his eyes would have given his frustrated concern away.

He should have said something.

* * *

 

 


	3. Even Heroes Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyryl considers him silently for long enough that Shiro begins to think he won’t speak.  
> “Home.” He says finally, looking Shiro in the eye; his indigo eyes ablaze in unfamiliar ways. “A place where I belong, where they know my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really want to get into the explanation of why i couldn't update sooner; honestly just didn't have time with RL, so much has changed atleast seven times over, and also i was going through one of the driest spells of dry writing spells aka writers block aka shittiest feeling ever, that i have suffered in recent memory. ive been working on this chapter for as long as ive been awol in bits and pieces, and i hope you can appreciate it. Ive had all but two very tense scenes written for over two months, but.. somehow im doomed to always update post season drop.  
> To those who reached out, thanks. Readers who take the time to give feedback and opinions, or even just to ask questions and debate with me are my favourite kind. It's sometimes the last straw between giving up and keeping on at something you do for nothing beyond interest.  
> There's just the epilogue left now. Final stretch guys. Let's bring it home.
> 
> A reminder that **Bold** indicates a switch from Galran to English.

* * *

* * *

 

In hindsight, antagonizing the officer twice as wide as he was tall- which was to say, _very_ \- was not Shiro’s smartest move.

He isn’t even sure what had prompted it, or how he ended up half-dead on the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe through the intense arcing pain in his chest.

He just remembers snapping, unable to see the way the tank of an officer pushed around the smaller gladiators; _the fodder_ , he hates himself for thinking.

Maybe it was that intrusive thought that broke his resolve to keep his head down, maybe it was the ways he has changed in his time here… it has to have been a year, give or take, and enough is enough.

Shiro still wasn’t fast enough, or strong enough, and his attempts against _Sendak_ \- he had heard the Galra soldiers murmur the name- were laughable at best.

He is here now, broken and bleeding, and helpless.

Fading; sensation coming and going in waves and pulses.

He hears the clatter of footsteps, murmurs “ _Kyryl?”_ through a mouth incrementally filling with blood.

It comes out a weak mumble, and Shiro wants to raise his head to see his friend, but it’s not within his ability.

“Not quite.” A raspy voice replies to his half-hearted cry for help, his reliance on the boy he keeps endangering with every single fight he gets himself into, that Ky keeps bringing him supplies for.

Shiro’s blood runs cold, and he _knows_ that voice. It’s a potent mixture of fear and hysteria that flows through his veins, and his heart goes into overtime, pumping faster, expunging more blood from the deep cut somewhere on his face, across his gut.

The witch.

“Take him.” She says, her voice a grating hiss, and he wants to scream, to ask what they’re going to do to him.

Instead his head lolls at the pain that assaults his wrecked body when the soldiers yank him to his feet, and he allows himself to be dragged.

Along and under, to oblivion.

* * *

 

“Lab Commander Ulaz.” Keith’s voice is very close to a bark, angry and desperate, as he stomps up to the Galra.

Ulaz seems to sense that, and despite the flash of displeasure on his stoic face, he says nothing; merely waving away his attendants.

“W **hat are you doing here, cub?”** he demands, in brusque Terran, even as his topaz eyes scan Keith’s battered face.

“ **It’s Shiro.”** Keith says, feeling his face burn in shame, in terror previously foreign to him. **“Sendak took him down.”**

Ulaz’s face tightens before smoothing; its brief, but seeing the concern that takes him over serves to decrease Keith’s panic. “ **Until things settle, you _cannot_ go to him.”**

“ **Shiro will need assistance.”** is all Keith says, the reminder of Sendak’s brutality unneeded.

Ulaz visibly thinks for a few seconds, pinching the bridge of his nose. **“The witch will have her eyes on him, and his cage.”**

Keith snarls, and drops his head- hanging it low between defensively raised shoulders. He gathers himself in the couple of moments he glares at the floor. **“You _have_ to get him out of here.”**

“I do not have the means,” Ulaz says, face shuttering. The switch back to Galran signals a clear desire to end the conversation.

Keith isn’t swayed that easily, and ignores this unexpressed plea. **“Contact your masters, your puppeteers. They have stood by in the shadows long enough.”** he growls.

 **“It is not that simple.”** Ulaz snaps.

 **“It is just that simple.”** Keith’s rage mounts, and he is up in Ulaz’s personal space before he really registers it. “ **He is important to this cause, this rebellion; _without_ him, you do not have the ability to launch a war we can win.”**

**“You are naïve; one man does not-”**

**“I’ve heard enough of your excuses.”** Keith interjects, rising temper audible in his voice. “ **You know, as well as I, that the Champion is essential; he is the spark to your carefully laid kindling.”**

 **“Do not speak as if it is the rebellion you care for.”** Ulaz’s disdain is haughty, as he looks down on Keith, and something in Keith snaps, like a tether he has been holding on to for longer than he even realized.

 **“You’re right. It is not.”** Keith retorts, furious. “ **What I also do not care for is _cowardice_.” ** He fumbles at his sleeve, hands shaking in rage and some remnant trace of wretched unhappiness that tells him to _think about this._

He stalwartly does not, as he pulls out the knife- the one remnant he has had of home and belonging, and flips it; holding it out, hilt first, to Ulaz. “ **Take it.”**

Ulaz looks stunned, as he looks between Keith and the blade, seemingly speechless.

 **“I don’t want to be linked to anything as spineless as your organization proves to be.”** His hands are still trembling faintly, as he murmurs in far too polite Galran. “It is as yours, is it not?

Ulaz sighs, the tension leaving his body, as he almost sags. **“What do you want from me, cub?”**

Keith’s eyes narrow, as if registering the diminutive for the first time. **“What do you… know?”** he asks suddenly, which was not what he was going for to begin with, but seems important to ask.

Ulaz closes his eyes and breathes- one measured instant- before he speaks, **“The general…Vy- your mother… She was one of ours.”** He says, and there’s true emotion in his face for the first time; loss, and a sorrow that is deep rooted.

Keith stills, abruptly unsure if he wants to continue this vein of conversation; he doesn’t remember his mother, never really knew her- the years where he had desperately wished to be claimed by her are long gone, knowing what he knows now... the Galra are unforgiving to traitors.

Maybe in this regard, Keith’s genetic makeup influences him- shines through; he too cannot forgive the betrayal of his mother’s abandonment.

He can see in Ulaz’s eyes that he does not feel the same way.

 **“How do you know she was my…”** Keith trails off, finishing awkwardly, **“that she gave birth to me?”**

It’s odd; now that Keith can see Ulaz believes him, that the Galra sees the way the dagger thrums with energy that it draws from him- the way its pulse is an echo of his heartbeat, the ways they are intrinsically linked- Keith doesn’t quite want him to.

The look on Ulaz’s face is speculative, like he sees the contradiction, but he does not address it as he continues. **“I did not believe it at first, but the more… the more I see of you, it’s undeniable.”**

The break in Ulaz’s unemotional voice unsettles Keith. He looks away, crossing his arms, before finally muttering the quiet question lingering on his tongue, helpless not to. **“What does that mean?”**

 **“You have her… spirit; she- too- was the personification of wildfire,”** Ulaz pauses, shaking his head in an obvious catch of memory **“scorching her from within and without- the inability to hold your tongue, the incapability to bide your time, the depths of your emotion…”** Ulaz exhales sharply, frustratedly, before cutting himself off as he closes his eyes. **“The dagger recognizes her blood, or it would not be aglow. You are** kin **.”**

The word _kin-_ said in Galran- seems to resound. The weight of a tether unmoored.

Keith takes it in silently, feeling like he has been set adrift in zero gravity- numb and defenseless.

He doesn’t know how to respond, how to react.

Keith feels lost.

To his surprise, after a beat, Ulaz continues. **“She was a fierce warrior, untameable but loyal and capable.”** His face softens suddenly, awash in memory. **“She would have liked you.”**

Keith swallows, suddenly raw, unable to hear another kind word, another reminder of what he had never had, would never have. No one would claim Keith as theirs, because he was unlike them, and he had always known that; the seclusion of being an anomaly.

The unconditional love he may have had once, the kind that only came from family, was foreign to him- snatched from his grasp before he had known to value it.

Keith couldn’t let that happen again. **“I _need_ you to help him.”**

Ulaz’s mouth twists a little, but his eyes are still far away, still sadly soft in the hues of nostalgia. “Same Gal-damned obstinacy.”

Keith folds his arms, as if that will stop the twinge of longing lancing through his core; **“Will you help _me_?”**

Ulaz’s eyes tighten with understanding as he takes in Keith’s stubborn stance. **“You have it.”**

* * *

 

Shiro comes to in a blur of sensation; he’s disoriented for a second too long- enough to panic at a glancing touch at his temple.

 **“Shiro?”** Kyryl’s voice is quiet, low. His hands are steady on Shiro’s flailing arms. It grounds him; gives him something to focus on, even though it takes a few heart-rending moments to stop his thrashing.

It registers slowly, the calming touch, the warmth of Ky’s legs underneath his throbbing head, the light brush of dark hair on his forehead. Shiro takes in a breath, and another, holding it till his vision clears, and his eyes zero back onto the concerned face above his.

Ky… looks terrible. A massive bruise covers the left side of his face, concentrated around his temple, falling in clusters to his cheek, and the line where his chin meets his jaw. His lip is split, glowing black in the UV lights, a gash bleeding copiously on his forehead, trickling down his sharp nose.

 **“what…happened?”** Shiro chokes out, mostly unintelligibly, through leaden lips.

Ky ignores him, which is when Shiro strains his neck upwards to meet his eyes. They’re cold, the edges pulled tight, and there’s a whiteness to his face that is neither blood loss nor complexion.

It’s fury.

 **“What possessed you to do something so stupid?”** he asks, voice strained.

 **“I couldn’t watch that brute pushing them around. He- that _bastard_ \- got off on their fear and I couldn’t stand it**.” Shiro says matter-of-factly.

Keith growls, **“You fucking moron. You could have been killed.”**

Shiro, if he’d been less out of it, might have laughed in admiration at the well-placed expletive. “ **Have you ever wanted something so badly, you wouldn’t be able to go on without it?”** he asks instead, idly wishing he could wipe the frown lines from Ky’s forehead with a lazy brush of his fingers. He envisions doing just that, and continues to speak without thinking. **“That you’d rather die than risk losing?”**

Ky’s mouth thins for an instant, eyes flickering in an empathetic sort of cognizance, before he huffs out a sigh that sets Shiro’s forelock aflutter. **“What do you mean?”**

Shiro tuts, the remnant chill of the healing chambers, the growing haze of pain in his head unable to stop him from saying, **“You have to tell me what you _want_ first.”**

Kyryl considers him silently for long enough that Shiro begins to think he won’t speak.

 **“Home.”** He says finally, looking Shiro in the eye; his indigo eyes ablaze in unfamiliar ways. **“A place where I belong, where they know my name; where they say goodbye before they're gone.”**

 **“Your name?”** Shiro asks, absently, focused on the way the purple irises reflect and absorb light, a sheen of silvery grey glowing almost onyx in places.

Ky shakes his head, and the small movement causes his bangs to sweep across Shiro’s forehead. **“What do _you_ want, Shiro?”**

 **“I want to not have to fear losing… losing my life… _myself_. I want to feel the sun on my face, the rain in my hair. I want to touch someone without the violence, touching without killing. Protecting… I want to remember that that was once possible.” ** Shiro trails off, giving into the urge to finally stroke Ky’s hair off his face.

It’s as soft as he thought; in all the ways the lines of Kyryl's face aren't.

Ky stills, but allows it. His eyes are steady on Shiro as he prompts, **“And?”**

 **“I want to watch _them_ burn, Ky.” ** Shiro whispers, letting his arm fall back to the ground beside him. He can't bring himself to sully Ky with the toxic ash of his words, his touch. **“I want to make sure they can never hurt anyone again.”**

 **“It’s a fool’s errand.”** Ky says, as he lowers his head, bumping Shiro’s forehead with his. **“You’re set on being a martyr when the universe needs a hero.”**

 **“I’m no hero.”** Shiro mumbles. **“I’m the fool too afraid of watching myself unravel.”**

 **“Is that so mutually exclusive?”** Keith murmurs, as Shiro’s eyes go in and out of focus. **“Even heroes know when to be scared.”** Keith says, soft as breath, firm as conviction.

 **“Thread by thread by thread…”** Shiro says, before he winces as if pulling back. Keith holds his breath, releasing it only when Shiro continues less cryptically. **“But I am always afraid, Kyryl.”** Shiro whispers. _Is that so bad?_ He thinks, unable to voice it.

“ **So am I.”** Kyryl exhales softly, thinking for an instant before he whispers back, softly. **“My name is Keith.”**

 **“Keith.”** Shiro repeats, and it finally feels right, like the ultimate slot falling into place. **“ _Keith_.”**

And the weight of the moment doesn’t feel as crushing, with Keith’s deft fingers winding through Shiro’s overlong hair, with the warmth settling in his chest, his heart.

The fear seems to hold itself at bay, and Shiro dares to hope for better.

* * *

 

Keith stays as long as he can, leaving only when the ache in his bones becomes as pressing a concern as his window of remaining unnoticed. He carefully lowers Shiro’s head to the floor, trying not to wake him, as he slips out.

He limps his way to Ulaz’s station, uncaring of suspicion, knowing his lack of healing will go further in raising doubts than a clandestine meeting with a shady commander.

Keith has no way of explaining why, despite his steadily diminishing quota of med-tech, he is very much still injured. “Commander.” Keith says, and he sees the alarm in Ulaz’s eyes with how weakly it comes out.

It has to be worse than Keith thought for the stoic Galran to radiate concern this way.

 **“I…”** he starts before he’s interrupted by himself, unexpectedly tipping over sideways, suddenly unsteady.

 **“What is it, cub?”** Ulaz’s voice is urgent, tense, even as the Galran catches him; settles him onto a cold metallic chair.

 **“Ulaz; _Shiro_ … you were _right_ , he's back, but he wasn’t okay. He's _not alright._ We _have_ to get him out.” ** he's aware of how desperate he sounds, how frantic but he doesn't care, can’t care.

 **“Child, look at _yourself_.” ** Ulaz barks out a terse laugh that does nothing to hide his worry. **“Why have you not healed?”**

 **“I gave him my supplies… and an unsanctioned chamber session will raise concern.”** Keith says pragmatically, before waving that vein of conversation away casually. He’s determined to extract answers from the recalcitrant Commander as he doggedly pursues the subject of Shiro. **“The disorientation was _worse_ ; what are they doing to him?”**

Ulaz’s mouth purses, but he turns away without comment, to rifle through a floating med-cabinet. Keith grabs his arm at the elbow, wincing as it jostles his broken ribs. **“ _What_ do you know?”**

 **“The witch has taken special interest in him.”** Ulaz says through gritted teeth, as he tugs his arm free of Keith's grip. **“She wants to turn him into the empire’s vanguard.”**

Keith jerks back in a mix of horror and fury, “ _No_.”

Ulaz nods, unhappily. **“Take this,”** he says, **“I can’t give you enough to heal your broken bones- that would raise questions- but you should heal your face.”**

Keith ignores the extended tin of salve, lost in more pressing concern; a storm of troubled thought.

If the witch succeeds; if the worst happens, and Shiro becomes the weapon of the empire, not only will they lose Shiro, they would lose the _rebellion_.

Heroes might be better than martyrs, but even a _martyr_ is preferable to the fallen hero… their fledgling cause wouldn’t survive fighting the embodiment of their resistance.

They can’t afford that.

Keith knows all this, knows it to be of vital importance, but what he truly thinks about is the kindness in Shiro’s grey eyes; the gentle slant of his smile, the carefully constrained strength which could easily crush, but chooses instead to cushion; to champion the frail.

He cannot lose _Shiro_.

Keith narrows his stinging eyes at Ulaz, **“We’ll need a diversion.”**

* * *

Shiro wakes on the hard floor, once more, unsure of why it feels like something’s missing.

It takes him a beat to place himself amidst the overwhelming sensation that is his spinning head.

It takes another to recognize that Ky- _Keith-_ is gone and he is alone.

He feels the loss acutely, until he realizes that he had also not been alone the first time he had woken.

He feels the fear spear through him, as he remembers.

The first time he had risen, in the haze that clouded his head, the witch had been there.

And he had relinquished Keith’s name to her.

* * *

 

It turns out, they don’t need the distraction.

The sentries come for Keith, when all he and Ulaz have are half-cooked plans for escape.

It’s the signal for everything to go wrong, and Keith comes to an instant decision.

Keith looks to Ulaz, whose eyes are stricken behind the muzzle.

 _Victory or Death,_ he thinks.

He will get Shiro out, if it’s the last thing he does.

 **“Victory or Death,”** he says, in rapid Terran, and it feels like signing on the dotted line of an agreement. From the way Ulaz’s eyes tighten, he feels the bind of the ancient contract too.

Ulaz nods, and the fulfilled contract sears into existence in his mind’s eye; a flare of quintessence, evoking Gal, heralding a promise to be kept.

Victory or Death.

Especially if it’s the last.

* * *

 

Shiro wakes once more, but it feels less like emerging from sleep, and more blinking into existence where everything else is in full tilt.

It’s disorienting, and perhaps the first sign that something is really wrong.

He stands in a hexagonal room, lit in hues that make Shiro erroneously think of nightclubs back on Earth. The thought is inappropriate, and just as out of place as Shiro feels in his own body.

The second indication is Keith standing very still, face wan, eyes wary as they flit between him and the woman contained beside Shiro.

_Kl’vyrrah._

Shiro finds his arm falling- when had he raised it?

Kl’vyrrah is still, skin deathly grey. Her eyes stay open, and they are the only splash of colour on her person; the indigo of the night sky. It’s jarring, but not as disquieting as the mirror Shiro sees.

The sharpness of the face, the curve of the eyes, the almost Grecian nose; unmistakeable.

 **“Keith,”** he finds himself gasping. **“What’s going on?”**

Keith surprisingly flinches, even as his shoulders fall as if in relief, and that too is something that feels out of place.

What is Shiro missing?

 **“My mother?”** Keith asks, eyes now wholly on the cryopod encasing her.

“Yes.” Shiro finds his mouth moving, but the voice that comes out is not his. It’s raspy and low, and the beginning and end of every one of Shiro’s nightmares.

The Witch.

“What is it you want, Haggar?” Keith asks, resignation colouring his face.

Shiro laughs, but it is not his own. He feels horror constrict his airways, as the violation sinks in. He is not in control, not of his body nor his voice.

Shiro is the Witch’s puppet.

 **“Keith.”** He says, and his voice shakes, the fear apparent. It modulates into a laugh with no effort on his part, and Keith twitches, finally looking him in the eye.

Shiro frantically finds himself wondering if they glow yellow like in his nightmares.

 _Champion._ The word resonates in his mind, foreign and unwanted, in the hisses and snarls of Galran but finally comprehensible. _End this, now._

 _No,_ he pleads, as he finds himself stepping forward, closer to where Keith stands unarmed, save the dagger Shiro now knows he always carries under his armour.

“ **Shiro**?” Keith asks, softly.

Shiro finds himself lunging at Keith, who only just manages to jump away. “ **Shiro**!” he chokes out, when quick as breath, Shiro grabs him by the throat with his bionic arm.

 **_No_ ** _._

_End this, Champion._

**_No, no, no._ **

Shiro grapples for control with the intangible claws in his head, distress growing as he feels his fingers tighten around Keith’s slender throat, and can sense the bones under the skin beginning to give, as Keith gags, struggling for air.

_Finish the traitor you hold so dear, Champion._

The voice in his head is a sibilant purr, a sultry promise of ownership and reward if he does as asked.

**_It would be so easy._ **

**_No_** _,_ but the restraint is splintering in his head, and the refusal comes out feeble.

The door shatters open at the same time as his control and the voice clash, and in that one moment of confusion, Shiro regains enough of himself to throw Keith away, straight into the cryopod.

He hits hard, slumping against it, and his forehead leaves a bloody smear on its console.

Shiro would feel worse about it if he hadn’t been so close to snapping Keith’s neck.

Shiro would feel worse, if he wasn’t bent over at his knees, struggling for his _self_ , chest heaving in the exertion.

He hears familiar footsteps, but gasping for breath, he doesn’t see it when Ulaz goes to check on Keith. He hears the quiet murmur of Terran, however, and it assuages something in his soul.

Or it would have, had the claws not clenched in his head once more.

He cries out, and thrashes, as if by pressing his palms to his head, he can force the voice away.

“ **Shiro** ,” he hears Keith say, weakly.

“Kl’vyrrah,” he hears Ulaz gasp in disbelief.

 _End this_ , the witch’s voice croons, and it escalates until it’s a deluge that drowns out all else.

Shiro falls below the wave he’s been trying to skirt, and doesn’t rise.

* * *

 

Ulaz helps him up, even if his skin is three shades too pale, and his usually steady eyes keep flickering to the body in stasis behind them.

Keith would like to say he is steady as he stands, but he really isn’t.

If hearing the witch speak through Shiro’s lips hadn’t been enough to unnerve him, the splatter of blood on the sensor of the cryopod’s console would have been; so would the gradual way the cryogenic liquid was tinting itself in the pinkish hue of dilute blood.

The urge to not look away wars with the need to look when Shiro cries out.

He turns, instinctively, to see Shiro still, straightening into a crouch; his eyes flickering yellow intermittently as if to a silent beat.

Keith’s heart near stops.

“Make your decision, _Halfling_. Mother or Myrmidon.” Shiro hisses.

Ulaz stiffens, as he turns to Keith. **“You know?”**

 **“The witch brought me up to speed.”** Keith says, a bitter humour in his voice.

Ulaz shakes his head, opening his mouth to say something he never gets to voice.

The cryopod opens with a tidal wave of blood tainted fluid that soaks into Keith’s shoes, seeping osmotically upwards.

Kl’vyrrah advances, galactic eyes narrowed on Ulaz. “ _Vyrrah_?” the Galra asks, and it’s an echo of how Keith had called to Shiro.

She says nothing as she keeps moving forward with what is a distinctly predatory nature. Ulaz lifts his hands, the universal gesture of peace, and she stills, cocking her head sideways as if curious.

Keith breathes in shakily, and looks away from that which has remained the biggest shadow in his life.

Mother or Myrmidon? Friend or Foe?

Victory or Death.

So many choices, and none of which would end well.

Haggar had to know that.

Keith wants to not have to choose.

He doesn’t want to give the witch that satisfaction.

So he takes in a deep breath, and as he locks eyes with Shiro, chooses not to.

* * *

 

_Mother or Myrmidon._

It resonates strangely under the crashing weight of the water, or is it quintessence, and Shiro is struggling to surface.

 _Shiro_. He sees Keith mouthing his name, speaking to him, but he can’t make out the sounds over the deafening deluge.

 _Keith_ , he tries to say, but instead he is attacking again- fist crackling with the fire of quintessence- and Keith meets it with his blade.

It holds up against the raw energy radiating off his hand and they clash together, twice, before Shiro gets a hit in, but it’s offset immediately by Keith’s solid kick to the underside of his jaw.

Shiro staggers, disoriented, and the fleeting moment of confusion allows Keith a tight window of action, and he jumps, wrapping his thighs around Shiro’s neck and flipping them to the floor.

The second harsh impact unmoors the suddenly tenuous grip the witch had on him, and Shiro gasps his first unobstructed breath since waking.

“ _Keith_.” He pants, and Keith too breathes like he had been deprived of air.

“Takashi?” he asks, and the slight tremor to his voice tells Shiro he is afraid to hear the answer.

There is a scuffle then, before Shiro can speak, and Keith whips around to see Ulaz flung into the control panel across the room.

He hits with an immense crash, and Keith snaps something in a series of almost guttural sounding Galran words, and Shiro has never been more relieved to have it not make sense- not when understanding comes at the cost of the witch in his mind.

Kl’vyrrah turns to them slowly from where she is crouched over Ulaz’s prone form, almost robotically, and her eyes bleed topaz.

Shiro’s heart constricts.

“ **Run.”** Keith shouts, and it is the pure fear in him that seizes at Keith as he follows the directive.

* * *

 

Shiro grabs him as he breaks into a run, and Keith is dragged along the hallway, as one of many mostly fanciful, pre-planned plots to escape- and routes to do it by- click into place.

It had been a pastime, once Shiro and Keith had gotten to know each other enough, the idea of escaping to a galaxy far away.

 _Terra_.

A dream; but it had kept him going. It keeps them going now, even if only one half of them has the complete picture in their awareness.

He can hear Kl’vyrrah- or whatever mockery of her the Druids have reanimated- give chase to them. Keith sends a quick prayer that Ulaz had heard the coded coordinates he had shouted before taking off.

They don’t stop to confirm either of the above.

As luck would have it, the weird Druidic room they had been brought to, opens to the most convenient of their laid out routes. Later, the coincidence will speak to him as something more sinister; at that moment, Keith grasps the opportunity by both hands and doesn’t question that either.

Its frantic, the race to the finish, and they’re almost to the doors of the pods, when Kl’vyrrah attacks Shiro with the blades wrested from Ulaz, aimed to incapacitate if not kill.

Keith doesn’t even think before he pushes Shiro out of the way, flinging him towards the closed doorway to the escape pods.

He only has the time to hope that the impact doesn’t mar Shiro’s chance to escape, when the entranceway opens in near perfect time, and Shiro sails through the gap, into the pod.

The doors slide shut between them, sealing Keith’s fate.

Kl'vyrrah's blade sinks into his thigh- the same time as realization- and it burns, searing through him; in a way that too feels permanent in a way very little ever has. Keith laughs, or maybe it’s a sob, but it’s a desperate sound empty of any emotion except a half-frenzied jubilance.

Victory or Death has never felt so real, and yet Takashi is on the other side of it.

Victory _and_ Death, but all Keith feels is a triumphant stab of the former, even as he knows the latter is all but confirmed.

Victory and Death, and Keith welcomes it.

* * *

 

Kl’vyrrah’s strike is almost lethal, in that it cripples Keith; that Shiro can see even as he staggers from Keith’s displacing push into the wall opposite to the exit pod door.

“ **GO**.” Keith near howls, both in desperation and the pain from the wound he takes for Shiro.

The door hisses shut, separating Shiro from Keith.

Shiro lingers.

Even with the long desired means to his escape encapsulating him, Shiro _lingers_ , trying to figure out a way to reopen the door; anything, _anything_ to help.

The desperation that shrouds him has never felt more palpable, not even when he was fighting off his puppeteer, his own death.

It beats against his skull, like the banging of a drum, like a singular word, a heartbeat: _Keith, Keith._

It masks the sound of the witch’s siren call entirely.

_Keith, Keith._

Never has he felt more useless.

Shiro doesn’t know if its alarm, or horror that removes his ability to move. “ **I can’t.** ” He says sounding as terrified as he feels, and his eyes are fixed on the way Vy drags her katar through Keith’s thigh, twisting as if to ensure it’ll never be usable again. He darts his eyes frantically to the console of the escape pod, only to see the mainframe displaying a video feed of the control room. A familiar figure adorns it. “ ** _Ulaz_** ,” Shiro begs, pride all but shot “ **let me through**.”

Ulaz turns away, and Shiro chokes on his fear and anger. “ **At least _help him_ , you _coward_.”**

_Keith, Keith._

Quiet and stalwart Keith keens in pain, and Shiro feels his heart fold, smaller and smaller with every passing second.

 **“Takashi, _please_.” ** Keith says, and it’s almost a sob, an expletive through gritted teeth. **“ _Look_ at me. I’m in no shape to go anywhere.”**

 **“No!”** he beats his arms on the glass door, as if to drown out what he doesn't want to hear, as if to break open his way to Keith. It’s futile and Shiro can only see how his once-friend looms over Keith, the blade twisting in her capable hands in a manner hinging on cruel promise.

_Keith, Keith._

**“Don’t waste this, Shi-ro.”** Keith gasps as he staggers back from Kl'vyrrah's advancing offence. **“Don’t give yourself up for me.”**

 **“ _No_.” ** Shiro’s voice comes out weak, as he leans his forehead into the door as if begging it to open. “ **you can't expect me to do this. You can't expect me to live with this…”** he's half sobbing now, as he bangs his arms on the transparent panel.

“ **I expect you to _live_.” ** Keith says, voice surprisingly even. As, helpless, Shiro turns to him, he sees a small smile at Keith's lips and _knows_ that Keith had never entirely anticipated his own escape; his freedom.

Not the way he had engineered Shiro's.

“ **Keith!”** Shiro says, pleading for a miracle he knows better than to expect. “ **Keith.”** He says, knowing this means goodbye, but not wanting to say it, not wanting to leave the boy who saved him in more ways than one; not wanting to seem uncaring but unable to deny how the idea of freedom eases something selfish and terrified within the recesses of his heart.

How the notion of keeping himself sane, and _himself,_ wars with the desire to save Keith.

Ulaz is at the control panel, hands furiously at work against flashing lights and neon signs of warning, and Kl’vyrrah keeps slashing at Keith with her attacks only just millimeters off.

It’s too close, too imbalanced, reeking of something far too inevitable and Shiro just keeps battering ineffectually at the door dividing them. “ ** _please_**.” He says, unheard.

Ulaz finishes his sequence, and the pod begins to unlatch, trembling in preparation.

It judders in time to the shaking of his arms and legs; the trembling of his heart as he realizes what this means.

_Keith._

“ **Please**!!” Shiro finds himself yelling, as the capsule detaches itself, as he sees Keith falter, as he sees Kl'vyrrah rush forward to take advantage of his misstep.

He sees Keith cry out, as the katar meets its mark, but it is inaudible to him amidst the gurgling purr of the small vehicle catapulting him away.

He sees Keith's hand come up between him and his assailant, and there is a flurry of motion he can't parse.

What's unmistakeable, however, is the way Keith's modena eyes meet his over Kl'vyrrah's shoulder, the emotion in them remarkably content.

What's unmistakeable, as Keith signs his own death warrant, is the way he mouths one word at Shiro; the way it twists his heart and makes him fall to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut.

_Goodbye._

Shiro thought himself well-acquainted with grief, but nothing has ever felt quite like this.

Despair borne of loss has more bitter a taste than even that of fear and loss of control could match.

Shiro gives into it as he sobs, but doesn’t once take his eyes off Keith, till long after the boy vanishes from his vision.

In the cold of the spaceship, he finally gives in to the growing buzz inside his head.

It escalates until there's no room for thought, for consciousness.

It envelops him, until he drops his face into his shaking hands; for once he can’t even begin to find the means to piece himself back together again.

* * *

 

Keith expects it to hurt more; seeing the slim chance of his own survival evaporate into the fumes of the departing escape pod.

As a fighter, as a survivor, he has always done what it takes. There were no two ways around that fact, but Keith’s never had to do it for anyone but himself, and at the end of it, he’s surprised that all he feels is a sharp and all-encompassing relief.

Shiro will make it.

He doesn’t think about the rebellion, doesn’t think about himself, or even the way Shiro’s calm had crumbled as he realized that their time was up.

Instead, he thinks of kind grey eyes, and soft smiles shared, and for the first in a very long time is grateful.

Shiro _will be_ safe.

Keith is grateful for the contribution he could make in preserving that… even if he has no time to dwell on it.

And so, Keith says his goodbyes to Shiro when he decides to take his mother's indiscriminating blade to his gut.

It’s reckless, the way he hasn't been since he was more cub than adult, but it gives him the opening to strike back.

It’s quick and clean; the sharp jab through Vy’s ribs, straight into her heart.

Keith flinches as she cries out, warmth gushing out over his fingers, as the knife goes in far too smoothly; a perfect manoeuvre that has her crumpling on Keith, their combined weight too much for his one uninjured leg to sustain and they both fall in a cry of pain apiece.

His hand still clutches the hilt of the knife that had once been hers, before it had ever belonged to him.

It returns to her two decades later, in a manner that perhaps stretches beyond belief in even the bitterest of ironies.

Freezing hands grasp clumsily at Keith’s face as Kl’vyrrah attempts to lift herself up, to take a better look at him.

Keith has troubles raising his eyes from the blade in her heart- the one he put there- the one humming like a conduit between them.

“ _Akira_?” She gasps, and it sounds like an end; the beginning he will never have.

“No... I’m Keith.” He says, eyes prickling in telltale emotion, in pain and loss, and grief for things he had wanted so desperately but was certain to never get.

“ _Keith_ ,” she says and as he finally manages to force his gaze up, he sees how Kl’vyrrah’s face lights with her voicing his name- the shape hauntingly familiar in all the defining ways of his own.

 “ **Mine**.” she says, in Terran, and the inflection is his father’s and Keith feels his breath catch in his throat; a snarl of shattered edges embedded in his arteries, tearing its way through with every beat of his heart, as he really looks at her; taking her in.

Her chin is as his, sharp to a lethal degree; hardened by a stubborn mouth. The cant of his eyes is mirrored in her flickering indigo-gold- the sickly topaz that had overtaken them fading out to the more recognizable indigo of his own; the slope of his nose an echo of hers.

It startles Keith, seeing the indisputable truth stare him in the face; seeing what he could have been, could have had in another life.

It pains him, seeing her gasp for air, for life, the way emotion flickers in her vibrant eyes; It looks an awful lot like pride.

Keith can't think of anything more terrible in that instant.

Kl'vyrrah's last word comes out tangled in breath, a soft caressing whisper; “ ** _son._** ”

In the harshness of her last few moments, cradled in her killer's arms, the word is agitatingly gentle, uttered sweetly private.

It unsettles him, and he lets the tight grip on his emotions falter; he chokes on a sob, as- for the first and last time- he drops his head into the crook of his mother’s neck; desperate for comfort.

Her cold hand is weak on the back of his head, but it persists even as her strength wanes.

Keith wants to stay in that moment forever.

Instead the final minutes of his freedom tick away, and he feels multiple pairs of arms rip him roughly away from the first time he has truly felt touch draining away everything that has ever hurt him.

He struggles by reflex, trying to shove off the restraints, to somehow return to that fragile instant of peace. There’s too many of them, however, and there is nothing to exploit, and he's already weakening in the aftermath of his injuries.

Keith meets Ulaz’s frigid stare, stern face impassive; but he really must have gotten to know the Galra too well, because he sees the tightness in those pale gold eyes, the pain in selling him out to save his cover.

Despite everything, Keith feels his face soften, and he gives Ulaz a tiny smile. The contract between them flickers as it pulls taut.

The Galran flinches, looking away.

Keith also looks away, towards what he may never get a chance to see again; towards his mother.

Even with a knife in her chest, even laid out on the floor in a growing puddle of her blood, even ashen under her lilac skin, Kl’vyrrah cuts an intimidatingly regal figure.

She keeps her eyes on him as he’s dragged brutally out by the soldiers, as the pain intensifies and his vision begins to swim.

Keith sees her beginning to stretch her hand towards him, as if belatedly wanting to call out for him, to forcibly stop them from hauling him away.

Vy’s voice fails her, much like her strength.

Much like his own.

 The last thing Keith sees is the outstretched fingers of Kl’vyrrah’s hand slacken and fall.

Then his vision blacks out.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come discuss this fic, or s5 with me, can't even express how much certain new characters had me so excited, partially because of this story and general anticipation.  
> I also dont have the energy to proofread, so if there's anything, please shout out my way.  
> Lastly, if you can, do let me know the response to this chapter. It was difficult to get out at the very least, as i am always trying new things, and some kind words would be much appreciated before the last installment comes up. Also, due to intentional gaps left in for later clarification, i am unsure of how much the narrative makes sense, so if possible, do comment on that.  
> Thanks for reading, and hope you have a great day.


	4. Through the Maze of Rights and Wrongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro wishes he remembered the boy's name, because he looks at him like he’s a stranger.  
> He grasps for it, almost desperately, a way to reclaim this… this person that Shiro knew, owed his freedom to, his life and sanity to. He fails, and the coldness of the man’s face is the price he pays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just... _take_ this from me. Thanks for reading, and congratulations on making it this far.

* * *

It starts the way it always does; an infiltration into some obscure Galra cruiser for intel.

When it’s five amateur paladins against a ten thousand year old empire, the stealth becomes necessary.

Shiro’s running point, because he never wants to subject Hunk, Lance or Pidge to the risks that come with high-security infiltration. They’re still young, in mind more than body, and he… he wants to protect that.

And Allura; despite how she is idyllic in insinuating herself- the shapeshifting as well as her quick thinking, perfect for adapting to the changing situations- is too valuable for these missions.

The mulberry of the flashing lights is the stuff of Shiro’s nightmares; the memorial of a more brutal, instinctive time where it was kill or be killed, and for an instant while he waits- hiding behind the wall, pinned by the rotating sentries- he’s catapulted back into that frame of mind; but _no_. He forcefully brings himself back from the brink of rumination.

He’s safe, he made it out.

_He’s safe._

He was helped in escape, and even though Shiro can’t remember much beyond the boy’s _human_ face; young, pale and dark haired, with determined galactic eyes, he remembers the kindness, the cost.

Shiro will never be able to forget his gratitude.

Even if sometimes it feels like he should remember more of why thinking about this pulls at his heart, wrenches his gut quite this strongly.

_Focus, focus._

He inhales a shaky breath, and holds it, easing the fluttering panic in his heart.

“Pidge,” he says lowly, gratified when his voice comes out steady. “I need you to keep an eye out for sentries. Clear a path for me.”

“Gotcha, Shiro.” Theres a clacking sound on the other end, as she types what is probably a hurried sequence of code, and then “Okay, so continue on straight for two doboshes, then on your left, there should be a corridor that leads straight to the CO’s chambers. It’s less frequented by sentries, so you can carry through easily enough. Twenty ticks for that corridor, and then a Galratech sensor panel should lead you into the server room.”

“Thanks, Pidge.” Shiro says, as he sticks his head out, confirming that he has a clear window to move.

He breaks out into a steady run, a tapping rhythm in his head keeping tally for the time he has before the cycling shift returns.

Its’ easy going _\- a little too easy,_ says the paranoid voice in his head- till the restricted area of the ship. He makes it into the Server Room with a simple scan of his mechanical arm, and it never ceases to perturb him that the Galra haven’t revoked this particular method of access.

“Pidge.” He says, scanning the monitors. “I’m in.”

“Alright, cool. Now this is pretty straightforward, but you’re gonna be incapacitated for a bit, so…” she says in her distantly clinical manner, before hesitating and adding softly, “just be careful.”

Shiro smiles, and just murmurs his assent.

“Okay, open the control panel in your arm, I’ll remotely control the connection; all you need to do is establish an entry point with the tech on your end.”

Shiro brings out the spool of wire she had given him, and sets up the link between his arm and the computer. His arm burns hot for a second, and he winces when the sensation suddenly dies out entirely to numbness; its powered down, more a USB stick than any weapon in that moment.

“Sit tight, Shiro.” She says, and then falls silent as the sounds of her typing escalates, becomes manic.

“How long?” Shiro can’t help himself asking, as he eyes the too-empty, disconcertingly silent control panel. He’s a sitting duck like this.

“Five to eight doboshes, give or take.” She’s gritting her teeth, and he knows she’s doing the best she can, but he can’t help the looming monster that is anxiety.

His right arm is dead weight, and he has to keep it lifted, propped up with his left to ensure the connection’s stability, and Shiro really, really hates this.

He senses it before he hears it- in hindsight- the feeling of fast approaching doom.

A near silent beep, and the door slides open with a _snick_.

There’s a second where Shiro and the newcomer both freeze.

And then, _recognition_.

He’s different, the boy who had saved him; It’s an obvious change wrought by time- the year and a half that’s passed- since his escape.

He’s broader in the shoulders, made all the more noticeable by the toned arms bared by his plain, black tunic. He stands taller, somehow more solid in his presence- like he’s less prone to run away at a moment’s notice. His face is sharper, older; his eyes are harder, more composed, and his expression is unsettlingly blank.

There is a wicked-looking scar around his left eye- red like blood, for all that it’s clearly not a new addition. It’s almost like a living breathing thing, branching jaggedly across his forehead, slicing through his eyebrow, curving in along his cheekbone, ending in a sharp curl near his nose; circumvented only by his eye. (It’s as if someone had tried to carve out most of his face near the left eye, and Shiro shudders at the imagery.)

His hair is long, falling unbound about his shoulders, instead of the wayward gravity-defying cowlicks that Shiro remembers, and all these deviations from Shiro’s memory make him intimidating in a way he hadn’t been before; deadly, muted confidence and poise, where there were once sharp edges and a soft core. A man- a _warrior_ \- replacing the boy.

Shiro wishes he remembered his name, because he looks at him like he’s a stranger.

He grasps for it, almost desperately, a way to reclaim this… this person that Shiro knew, owed his life and sanity to.

He fails, and the coldness of the man’s face is the price he pays.

Shiro’s hand is still hooked up to the mainframe, and if this man attacks, he’s done for.

He can hear Pidge still typing, murmuring _one more dobosh_ to herself, and he’s careful not to make a sound.

Instead, he sees a flash of something- determination and simmering flame- in the man’s bruise-coloured eyes, and then a fleeting curl to his lips, so transient that it’s gone by the time Shiro really focuses in on it.

This precedes the single step he takes, leading him backwards through the threshold. His eyes stay on Shiro’s the entire time, and then the door slides back shut.

He lets out a gasp of breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and asks frantically. “ _Katie,_ how much more time?”

“You’re done, Shiro. Get out of there.” Pidge’s voice hitches with relief.

He quickly unwires himself, shutting the panel, as Pidge remotely re-activates his arm. He clenches it once, relishing the return of sensation before he opens the door warily, unsure of what to make of his encounter with a new familiar face. He half expects an ambush, but the passage is clear. “Closest route to Black, Pidge. _Now_ , please.” Shiro says, voice strained.

“It’s a little too clear.” She says, hesitantly disconcerted. “The patrol has been unsynced. You could probably cut a straight line to the exit.”

Shiro doesn’t want to look blessings horse in the mouth, so he takes it. “I’m on my way out. Rendezvous?”

“Ten doboshes, if all goes well. Same as drop-off.”

“Going through.” He murmurs softly, before falling silent.

As she promised, the way is clear. It’s unsettling, still, but Shiro chalks it up to old friends and happy coincidences.

He’d go mad if he didn’t.

He’s only ten paces from the exit, smile threatening to break through at the promise of a mission smoothly executed, when the shadows begin to stir.

A man steps out, and Shiro halts. _This is my chance,_ he thinks, _I can finally thank_ him, _for now and before._

It’s not him.

This man is tall, much taller than the boy or Shiro- seven feet at a minimum- and undeniably Galra. He’s bedecked in armour so finely crafted, it can’t be anything but royal.

The crest emblazoned on his chest confirms it.

It’s not Zarkon’s crest, but it’s familiar nevertheless, thanks to previously gathered intel and Pidge’s efficient researching.

It’s the Crown Prince.

He’s fine boned, lean but well built. His hair is elegant- a wash of silvery-white, like threads of gossamer. His skin is pale, an almost lacey heather, but his eyes are gold.

The brilliant blue pupil is something Shiro hasn’t seen in Galra before, and it’s oddly reminiscent of Allura, and that thought startles him into a realization- that despite the Galran characteristics, he has a distinct appearance of Altea in his face.

Half Altean, Half Galran.

The strengths of both formidable races in his blood, and the upbringing of Gal; Zarkon’s heir.

The Prince stands in between him and the exit, deceptively casual, arms crossed on his chest. There is the beginnings of a smile on his face. “Greetings, Champion.”

Shiro feels his arm crackle to life, as he leans forward into a more aggressive stance, and the Prince… laughs.

He beckons him forward with a long-fingered hand, still crossing his arms, and Shiro sees _red_.

_This man is dangerous,_ his brain screams.

Even in this short instant, Shiro can tell. The Prince doesn’t have the severity of Zarkon, and his eyes are uncannily intelligent, and while the stance he holds himself in speaks volumes of arrogance, it’s highly stable.

A capable warrior’s form.

Shiro has to end this here and now.

Zarkon is an infected limb, one that sticks out and the Universe can gather to put down, but this Prince is the evil you don’t see coming, the snake in the grass, the venom that can turn on you before you even realize it’s there, coursing through your veins undetected.

Shiro has to stop it, before it can spread.

He rushes forward, pushing as much speed and strength into it as he can, the energy of his hand spitting in its potency.

The Prince remains still, eyes unflinchingly amused.

Something else interferes before he can make impact, with a quiet venomous, “ _No_.”

It’s the boy, the man, the fighter; and he meets Shiro’s crackling hand with a staggeringly powerful roundhouse kick.

It takes a lot out of Shiro to not stumble, to not crumple under the weight of the kick, but the attack and defense both hold for an instant, until Shiro jerks back- a step or two- in surprise and sudden fear. The quintessence would sear through material and _skin_ with ease.

He doesn’t mean to hurt the boy, he can’t, not when he owes him so much; his arm powers down, as he remains frozen.

The human boy merely straightens, and adjusts his stance.

Shiro is… confused; he should have screamed when the energy met his skin, the cloth of his pants is a wave of ash, falling away from where his metal fingers had made contact, but the man remains standing without a hint of discomfort.

Shiro glances down, and through the rent in the fabric, he sees a flash of dark skin… _no_ ; it’s not skin, it’s deep graphite-tinted metal, matte and durable.

_It’s a prosthetic leg._

He remembers all at once, the blow he had taken for him, the strike to his leg; the one that had allowed Shiro his freedom.

_He lost his leg_ , and Shiro feels his heart sink, and one word escapes his mouth, “ _Kyryl_.”

Kyryl- for that was what the Galran’s had called him- startles; jerks back a little involuntarily, but recovers. His face flickers in sudden emotion, but his body remains tense, protecting the Prince unequivocally. His arms come up in front of his face, a lethal looking dagger in each hand, and he frowns in apparent conflict.

“Kyryl.” The Prince’s voice is soft, gentle and cultured, and Ky instantly responds, seeming to understand the quiet command; he straightens out of the offensive stance but remains defensively in front of the Prince, eyeing Shiro warily.

Shiro straightens, mirroring Kyryl, as the memories play back in his head, and he remembers another name; a truer one. “Keith.” He says, quietly.

Keith’s face clears, and he relaxes suddenly. The hard lines of his face soften, and he lowers his hands, even as he half turns to the Prince. “Please,”

It’s a non-sequitur but clearly a request, and Shiro doesn’t understand, but the Prince nods, and Keith smiles.

The Prince is gone in a flicker of shadow before Shiro can as much as blink.

“Keith?” he asks, and the confusion bleeds through. “What-”

Keith looks at him for one long instant, and changing the subject deftly- a tact he hadn’t had before apparent in his words- as he says- allowing his monosyllabism to fall away for the first time. “I’m glad to see you made it.”

“It’s only thanks to you…” Shiro shakes his head, as if reorganizing his thoughts “You should come... Come with me.” He raises a hand to Keith, almost hopefully, almost pleading.

“No.” Keith declines, easily, as simply as breathing. “And, maybe next time you need information from us, you can ask directly instead of stealing it.”

The words are diplomatic, friendly even, but one word sticks out.

_Us._

A single syllable that speaks volumes to Shiro, who knows. “ _Belonging_.” He says, almost without meaning to.

Keith smiles, and it’s open, genuine. “You remember.”

“I didn’t, but I do now… I could never really forget.” Shiro says, softly.

“I hope the next time we meet will be under better circumstances.” Keith’s words are formal, but his eyes shine with unspoken words; _I’ve found my place. I’m where I need to be. I belong._

Shiro understands in the instinctive way he’s always been able to read Keith.

They smile at each other, for one blissful instant, before his comms crackle with worried queries.

“I have to go.” He says, wryly.

“You are free.” Keith replies, straightforwardly.

And, Shiro just walks out; from the battle cruiser belonging to the crown Prince; the supposedly tyrannical offspring of the dictator calling himself Emperor.

Shiro begins to wonder at the truth behind the legend. “Hey Pidge.” He finds himself asking as he looks back at the innocuously floating Galra cruiser, during his climb up the ramp into the mouth of the Black Lion.

“Yeah, Shiro? Her reply is instantaneous, a little curious in the way she always is.

“I need you to look up something for me.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue-y end.
> 
> Thank's for reading all y'all. Drop me a line, here or on tumblr [@theincrediblesulkmachine](http://theincrediblesulkmachine.tumblr.com)
> 
> I know this says its part of a series, and i know you guys probably have _some_ questions (hehe) but i'm not sure whether i have the energy or motivation to write this (I'd like to, don't get me wrong, as I grew unexpectedly attached to this verse even as i struggled but...) im unsure if i should invest more time into this when i have a million and one other WIPS, both published and unpublished.
> 
> Do leave your thoughts both in regards to the fic and if you want to see more. much appreciation. :) x

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Kudos? Questions? Support? Old fashioned screaming? Validation for a starving writer? .-.
> 
> Alternatively, come scream at me on tumblr [@theincrediblesulkmachine](http://theincrediblesulkmachine.tumblr.com)


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